THE FIRST THING VICKI did when she returned to New York next morning was to telephone Dean Fletcher.
“I’m arranging right now to get time off,” Dean reassured her. “Yes, Vicki, I’ll fly you down to Slick Pond soon... How soon? Not sure, but maybe in a day or two ... What? ... Okay, Vic, I’ll do my best. “Oh—er—Vicki,” he continued awkwardly, “don’t let this suspension business get you down. I know how you feel. I’ve been in the doghouse myself more than once. But it’s tough the first time you come up against the brass. I’ll be seeing you.”
Vicki’s eyes were misty when she came away from the telephone. Good old Dean. She knew what an effort this pat on the back had been for the taciturn pilot. He would never know how much his awkward effort to show his understanding and sympathy meant to
